


When the Hawthorn Blooms

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [46]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Celebrating the start of Summer, Gen, In which Caradhil shows his true colours, Silvans, Traditions, elves and wine, elves are weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 15:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3855121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Legolas has sailed, the elves of Ithilien welcome in Summer in their own way each year...</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Hawthorn Blooms

**Author's Note:**

> For those who have read Red Star Rising, this goes between the last two chapters, ie when Caradhil rules Ithilien alone.

The first day of summer.

Another summer in Ithilien.

Do not dwell on those who are not here, Caradhil tells himself, do not think of those who are dead, or sailed, or back in the Old Forest, or – or travelling, wandering as elves wander. Do not think of your parents, your friends who are gone, your prince, your King.

Do not think of your son.

Not today.

Today is a day for rejoicing, for seeing what you have made, and seeing that it is good. Today is a day for Silvan traditions.

Like this – a night of singing and – rejoicing – in all its forms, ending in this watch for dawn.

This silence as the dark of night fades into grey, as the stars hide themselves once more, then, as the first whispers of pink and gold begin to light the sky, the song begins.

The song which is the song of summer, of all things growing and flowering, of ripeness, of long days, and short nights.

The song of the turning of the year, of this first day of summer.

Joyous, but cold and clear, cold and clear as stars, as Valar, the song rises, and the listening elves, those who are not chosen to ascend the highest flet, to sing, sway, unthinking, with the music.

The music rises into the sky, as the sun rises.

At its end, there is a tension, a tension of elves forced to keep silent for too long, a tension as the sun rises, as the music builds, as the waiting elves feel the change in the air, the change in the song of the lands; a tension which all too often in the Old Forest is broken in a fight, a knifing, in vicious words. 

So it was here in the beginning.

Not any more.

Here, it is broken by the laughter of elflings – here, there is a new tradition. When the singing ceases, it is time for the first swim of summer.

Elves swim all year, if they wish; the cold of winter, the ice on the water, makes no difference to them – but – the first swim of summer has become – important.

As the music ceases, the splashing and laughter begins.

Elves being elves, it is not long before many – most – are following, and the dangerous moment is passed safely once more.

 

 

 

This morning is the time for elflings – the first swim, the first fresh-caught, fresh-roasted young rabbits – but before their feast, they must show off their knowledge. This morning is the time for the elflings to show their skill with blade, with bow, with words and dances.

Caradhil watches, as do all. Caradhil makes a note, in his mind, of which elflings will be skilled soon enough, which will be useful.

He smiles, as he hears the surprise in the voices of those who, it seems, did not know that all elflings can learn anything – that elflings are not condemned only to the skills and achievements of their parents.

Not in this land.

He remembers the moment, long ago, on that first visit to Minas Tirith, when he found that all dwarves read, write, calculate, speak many tongues. He remembers learning, fast – remembers being grateful that the dwarf who taught him was one he could call friend – one who would not betray his lack of knowledge.

A lack of knowledge suitable for – a Silvan hunter, a footsoldier in the wars of his King. For one who had not the chance of changing his estate.

Not one – not a single one – of the elflings he watches today shall risk being sent out into the world of mortals so ill-equipped.

 

 

 

This evening, there will be dancing. 

Much dancing.

Dancing that is as old as Silvans – and as new as this kingdom, for they are Silvan, they grow and change as the trees grow and change – yet they endure and are steadfast as the Forest.

Trees will be woven with ribbons, songs sung, wine drunk, combs shared – not always wisely, but – today is the first day of summer, things happen and are forgotten.

This evening is for rejoicing.

 

 

 

Now – now is the time for contests.

Caradhil watches, as an elven-King should. He watches the archery, the knife throwing, the bouts with swords, with knives, the wrestling.

He listens to the tellers of tales, the poets, the minstrels.

In each contest, the King’s favour, the King’s praise is the highest reward – higher than the acclaim of the crowd.

Elves being elves, this, it seems, it is impossible to change.

Caradhil is honest – in his own mind at least – he is honest enough to know he does not truly want to change them.

All afternoon the contests continue, and the delight on the faces of the elves to whom he speaks, whose ears he touches, whose names he remembers, is nourishment to a heart that has grown used to fasting.

 

 

In the evening, the bonfires are lit, the wine flows, the meat cooks, and the dancing begins.

The ellyth dance, the knives fly, and the queen of summer is chosen.

The ellyn dance, the knives fly, and there is never any doubt who will take his place beside her.

A part of Caradhil wonders if another year he should stand down, if another should be chosen for this – what is the phrase – purely ceremonial – role. 

But – elves are elves – were he to do so, to change something – it would cause much distress, much confusion.

It is not overly important.

One day, there will be the same queen every year, and the king will change – one day his daughter will rule in his place – he knows this.

In the meantime – he works hard enough, he thinks, he will take the pleasures where he finds them.

The flower crowns are woven, white as the snows of winter past, and once again, as every year, Caradhil does not let himself remember how such a crown looked on Sindar hair.

This year’s summer queen has the true Silvan hair, an autumn forest shot through with sunshine – combing tonight will be a pleasure.

 

 

 

But first – there is dancing, and feasting, and wine.

First there is time to think, and reflect on achievements, time to see what he has built and that it is good. A colony established, a way of life begun, flets for every family, every group, food and drink, tools and clothes, horses to ride, all these things in abundance for every elf. Peace and trade with neighbours, with mortals – Men and dwarves, and not just peace and trade, but friendship, even, to an extent, a very limited extent, understanding.

And the afternoon’s contests have reassured him – peace is secure. His elves are skilled with weapons. 

Use charming words, but have a sharp knife.

That has always been the best way to deal with mortals. Despite all, he smiles softly, it is we who will endure, we who will outlive them, we who one day may lay flowers upon their tombs.

There is much of which to be proud here, much has been achieved.

Time now to dream of what more could be done.

Caradhil watches his elves, and in his head, he begins to write the next Five Decade Plan.


End file.
